


Ceded

by amorfic



Series: Harvest [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Character Death, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Genderbending, One-Sided Attraction, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorfic/pseuds/amorfic
Summary: Summary: Kurosaki Ichigo was a lonely soul. She had freedom and she had strength; but she was weak, and the absence of anyone to chain her down hurt. Emptiness came in many shades, and she bled all of them.





	Ceded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I could be a damsel, and I'm often in distress, but I can handle it, so have a nice day, and move the fuck on](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187883) by [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross). 



> Rating: T for the most part but M for some sexuality , darker themes  
> Characters: Kurosaki Ichigo, Kuchiki Byakuya, Urahara Kisuke, slight Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez  
> Tags: gender bender, romance, slice of life, drama, one-sided romance, character death  
> Disclaimer: Characters are property of Kubo Tite; I do not own Bleach.

 

“Can we talk about this?” She asked because she had been taught that never taking a shot was the same as giving up. And Kurosaki Ichigo didn’t give up.

 

Even though she was tired of being pushed around like she wasn’t even there, except when it was convenient. She dealt with it all the time; school, at Seireitei, at home, anywhere she walked. She just wanted something more than she was used to. She wanted to be good enough.

 

The other body in the bed didn’t answer as it rolled onto its side. Well, she supposed, that was as much of an answer as she was going to get. There were no tears to hold back; they dried themselves long ago. But that didn’t mean there was nothing to hurt.

 

“Fine,” she bit out. She slipped on her underwear slowly, barely loud enough so that the other person in the room could hear the rustling of fabric. He didn’t even turn.

 

Fine, she repeated. Her jeans slid on comfortably, like loose skin of a paper mache project patched together clumsily by a child’s hand. But they looked good on her, the man in the bed had said as his hands brushed against the buttons, the back, and fumbled with her heat. Her tank-top fit just right, clung onto what curves she let loose in the privacy of home.

 

Ichigo hated tight fitting clothes, but they made for adventure. Not that adventure turned into much of anything. Much of her experiences hardly resembled anything remotely close to passion.

 

They were all the same. They blinked in surprise whenever she introduced herself because, they said, there was no way she wasn’t a man. But a few drinks, drugs, kisses later, and they understood perfectly that she wasn’t a man.

 

They loved her body for what it was worth, but they didn’t love her face. It wasn’t feminine enough, they said (She wasn’t feminine, they meant). It wasn’t her hair, they protested. Not most of the time. Her facial features were, perfectly, defined, one of them had assured her. Just not in the right way, he said. The rest of her, each one agreed, was perfection with no faults. She  _ was _ a woman.

 

But only after the clothes were off and the heat of lust overtook the absence of love in the making of an emptiness that filled itself only to be crushed into shards. And once the magic of midnight was over, she was nothing. Just like that tale,  _ Cinderella _ . Unlike that fairytale, though, Ichigo’s life wasn’t full of promises and love declarations of any sort of happily ever after.

 

Kurosaki Ichigo never slept with the same man twice.

 

Because if clothes or a lack thereof were all she had to draw men to her and to turn them away, if her body was the only thing that was woman, that was acceptable, then Kurosaki Ichigo wasn’t, was never going to be, female. Her body hid itself in boyish sweaters and matching pants and school uniforms that covered bindings and taut muscles that expressed themselves only in the scream of bedroom activities and silenced themselves to the world that continued to exist with Kurosaki Ichigo as anything but a woman.

 

She stepped out the house and made sure not to slam it. Karakura seemed so big when she was a child, the carrothead mused, her legs stretching themselves as she walked aimlessly. It also didn’t reek of cigarettes and sadness, but she wasn’t sure when the smell started kicking in. Was it sad, she wondered, that she couldn’t imagine what it would be like if it didn’t.

 

But that didn’t mean Karakura went completely without change. There used to be a park over there, she mused. She remembered how much she and Tatsuki used to jump up and down some of the trees and laugh as they swung dangerously high, their parents yelling at them frantically to stop doing that.

 

Her fists clenched as she thought about the last time Isshin treated her with the same tenderness. No. She wouldn’t go there. There was no reason to make her feel even worse. Ichigo let out a huff and crossed a bridge, looking down to observe the traffic as she did so.

 

There were fewer cars than in the past. Fewer people, businessmen and office works especially. Houses were abandoned and unsold, and Ichigo wondered whether or not it was a sign that she had to get out. Real estate wasn’t something she kept up with, but the fact that there were only two classes, and barely just, in her high school - the only one in town - meant that people were fleeing. For what, or whom, she never knew. She looked at the road again. There wasn’t much honking these days.

 

Night settled quickly in the small town, not that Ichigo was a stranger to any of it. She greeted the ghosts with smiles and slipped on her mask of tired content, greeted back by the living and dead alike. And yet missed by all of them.

 

Ichigo checked her phone. Karin was staying out late at a friend’s to do schoolwork. Supposedly. Her younger sister thought she was being slick, like none of them understood that she had been going out on dates. Yuzu was stuck volunteering, and Ichigo really didn’t want to see her head of house. To the candy shop, then.

 

She knocked on Urahara’s door and before she let herself in, just as usual. Ichigo set down her satchel and glanced at the half-empty mugs on the table. She picked them up and  she walked into the kitchen. Kisuke’s hands were busy with the dishes, so she joined him, drying them as he scrubbed to a small tune. He didn’t even look up as he asked, “Another one?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That makes four this month, Ichigo.”

 

Her voice caught in her throat. She flushed and mumbled, “I’m not irresponsible, Kisuke.”

 

“I never said you were.”

 

The two of them continued in silence, Tessai laughing at a television in the back room with Ururu and Jinta. She poked her head in. They were getting big, Ichigo realized. Like Karin and Yuzu.

 

“Oh! It’s Ichi-nii again, huh,” Jinta smiled. He didn’t notice her own smile strain as she waved back. She let out a breath of relief as the boy ran back to the couch. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. She turned around and just stared at the wall.

 

Urahara took her hand and dragged her to his room. “It’s okay,” he muttered into her hair. “Shh, it’s okay. He’s just a child, Ichigo. Don’t worry.” Kisuke’s hearing was sharper than it should have been, Ichigo thought as she clung onto him.

 

Instead of relief, Ichigo’s voice did nothing but crack as it asked Kisuke why she couldn’t have been beautiful the way other girls were beloved. With a face that did not did not stalk prey like a hawk, or a nose that didn’t edge itself into a sneer by default. Or have lips that weren’t always chapped and bruised from fights that she shouldn’t have ever had to have been in.

 

Kisuke had no response. He opened his mouth to tell her that he had only ever thought of her as beautiful. But he made no sound.

 

His arms, on the other hand, pulled the girl - she was only  _ eighteen _ , he trembled, carefully smothering his fury, his rage - closer to his chest. One hand carefully rubbed her back as she let herself fold into him. His breath hitched when he heard, felt, her take in his scent before her eyes closed and her body collapsed.

 

He lifted Ichigo gently and laid her in the bed, covers swept over her.

 

“Kisuke,” she mumbled. He flinched. Her limbs fumbled about; he waited, one hand interlaced with one of her own, until she calmed, with what might have been a smile settling on her closed expression.

 

Saké and soju did not help. Western wines and drink do little as he stumbled about his vast basement, the desert and skies crushing him from the inside out.  The loneliness is not as bad as the depression, and the depression is not as painful as the anxiety. In all his years of existing, Urahara Kisuke had never loathed himself more for his fears and insecurities. She was so close. She was right there.

 

Why? Why, he asked himself. Why couldn’t he just tell her he loved her?

* * *

 

There were moments in her grief that made Ichigo wish she could love women, too. Love them like Tatsuki did, or how Orihime looked at Ichigo like she was the center of the universe. Because maybe, just maybe, then she wouldn’t have been criticized for not being beautiful in the way people used the phrase  _ yamato nadeshiko _ . Maybe she could have been beautiful for being Kurosaki Ichigo.

 

But she remembered she tried and how much Inoue cried when Ichigo told her that it wasn’t enough.

 

Ichigo never wanted to see that look on anyone’s face ever again. (Orihime hadn’t forgiven her; Ichigo had yet to forgive herself.)

 

It hurt to think about once-friends. Karakura High’s rooftop was lonely without all of them, but the wind kept her awake. Ichigo saw how many students were running around the fields, kicking footballs left and right, zigzagging up and down the field.

 

Idly, Ichigo wondered if she should have gotten involved in sports like her sister did. And grown her hair out. Because even Karin was a girl, a  _ cute _ girl, but Ichigo was just Ichigo. She knew that if she had taken an interest in the culinary arts like Yuzu, she would have at least been thought of as feminine. Then again, she thought, Yuzu didn’t just cook. She was cute and her features were soft. More like their mother’s than Ichigo was.

 

She shifted her attention toward the cold touch of the mixture that was the school rooftop against the back of her uniform. The clouds, she thought, seemed like colorless snails. Ichigo missed her friends. Even the ones who, sort of, cared.

 

Ichigo pulled out her phone to read her last conversation with Uryuu. Had it really been two weeks since either of them had sent a text? Wow. She sent him a “Good luck, keep up the good work.” Huh. Her call log read that she hadn’t called Chad in roughly the same amount of time as well.

 

At least, she thought, Chad sent her some videos of his progress. Even if it was a limited amount since he was under contract and strict time management. Ichigo sent a good luck message too.

 

Both Chad and Uryuu had gone on to begin their careers, and they took to it like fish did water. Not that it was easy for either of them. Chad had gone on to start making his way toward professional boxing - she had visited some of his amateur bouts, and some had been featured on TV - and Uryuu had been one of the rare cases offered to skip a year in Japan. He took it without hesitation. Ichigo didn’t blame him for wanting to leave.

 

There wasn’t much left, after all. Keigo had transferred, and Mizuiro was forced to drop out and work in his family business after his father had taken ill. And Ichigo’s connections to the her female friends had been thread-bare after the fiasco that was the two-month tango between Inoue Orihime and Kurosaki Ichigo (Losing her best friend hurt).

 

But Ichigo never hated Tatsuki, much like she couldn’t blame Uryuu. Tatsuki had been Ichigo’s friend first, but became Orihime’s lover second. Slowly, the cycle shifted and it was Orihime first in Tatsuki’s heart, and Ichigo second. Because lovers, at least to most people, were more than friends.

 

And when Tatsuki told her so, Ichigo’s smile cracked. The last thing Ichigo remembered about Tatsuki was the softness in her eyes as she whispered into Ichigo’s ear that she would understand someday.

 

She didn’t. Instead, what Ichigo understood was extreme stress and the need to struggle with literal life-and-death in the post-death worlds. She didn’t understand how it was to sit back and relax and let the world pace itself; to not chase something, anything. Kurosaki Ichigo knew she wasn’t built for human life. Or at least, a life full of monotony and peace. Ironic, she supposed.

 

Ichigo stared at the sky and remembered how fleeting time was. War was so distant (had it really been two years?) that the memories made her wonder if she was ever anything more than human. Aizen hadn’t thought so. But the whispers of her swords never strayed far enough to let her forget.

 

They were tired too. Neither one of them knew what to say. She was their Queen, and they were themselves. But all of them were One. And her desires, it seemed, dictated their own, if only in dull finality. Ichigo did not know what to think of that.

 

She felt responsible for them, she had told them. Both of them often shook their heads as they told her that they would follow her into the dark, no matter where the road may take them. Ichigo loved them all the more for it.

 

“Yo.” Grimmjow sat down next to her. The arrancar seemed to show up at the oddest, but sometimes best, of times. The Garganta was probably out of range, Ichigo mused. Relations between Hollows and Shinigami had drastically improved, but it was hard to move past thousands of years of animosity. She didn’t feel a thing as he floated down next to her and ruffled her hair. 

 

“Hey.” He deadpanned. She puffed. So expression wasn’t her strong point. But she tried. Grimmjow laughed, at least.

 

“What’s been eating you? You haven’t been to Hueco Mundo much. Las Noches has been… well, drier than usual. Nel’s been moping about.” She croaked a strangled laughed as she told him what transpired in the past sixth months. And with each story, each body to her count, Grimmjow’s face seemed only saddened. Weird to see him so rational, Ichigo thought. He brushed a hand against the girl’s cheek, her own hand clasping his from the outside. “It’s going to be alright.”

 

Ichigo rarely sought comfort in the taste of the supernatural, but she did so on occasion. Though, for different reasons. Grimmjow was not one of her numerous lovers (She was happy for that). He was good company. But he was rare company.

 

Time wasn’t always the same between dimensions and it was hard for him to feel that a day passed in the desert, even when twenty or more had skipped about in hers. She wasn’t sure if it was sad that one of her closest friends was someone who wasn’t sure if it had been a month or few before stopping by - not that it was his fault. But she couldn’t help the hurt.

 

“When…” she faltered, and Grimmjow knew there was something wrong. Kurosaki Ichigo wasn’t invincible. She wasn’t immovable. She had fallen before. But she was a girl, still in high school, almost a woman now, just  _ seventeen _ , who faltered only under incredible duress. “When I die, will you be my friend again?”

 

The blue-haired arrancar swallowed thickly as his eyes widened. He blinked. Her gaze told him that he did not mishear. He brushed her cheek and pulled her head close to kiss her temple. “...Yeah.”

 

“Thanks, Grimmjow.”

 

The bell rang, and Ichigo bade the arrancar farewell with one final hug. His heart was caught in his throat as he whispered a choked goodbye and left for his  _ garganta _ . The path to Hueco Mundo was dark, murky, filled with the not-yet damned, souls insecure and uncertain, and by all means, was the abyss: the in-between, the universe of worlds that no one ever wished to touch. And he tore through it like a man possessed.

 

Grimmjow’s breath ran ragged like his legs, the string of curses cut loose from his tongue as he continued to rage against the winds and the screaming of souls. He had to get back. He needed to sit. To breathe. To think. To understand. He wasn’t sure when it was happening, but he sincerely hoped that whatever Ichigo became, she didn’t reincarnate into a Hollow (Ichigo deserved better than that).

 

His friend was more important than that.  She was strong. She was bright. She was fierce. She laughed. She hurt, but she hit back. She was… She was  _ Ichigo _ . It was a selfish thought, but it burned, a candle in the dark. It was hard to imagine a world without her.

 

But he did. He had to. Because Grimmjow didn’t have a choice - it wasn’t his to make - and he couldn’t stop her.

 

If it was this bad for him to think about, then Grimmjow wondered what it was like for his friend to come to the conclusion that she did. She was impulsive but not hasty; she chased her heart and her passions, but was unwavering in conviction because she believed and searched for her answers. The picture that train of thought painted was even more unpleasant, the longer he brooded on the matter.

 

His back against a shattered throne, he nursed his head as a shiver ran down his spine. The expression he observed from afar wasn’t what he had come to associate with the girl. Grimmjow saw his friend ashamed of herself. And it hurt. Ichigo wasn’t been one for masks, her closed-off expression and scowls more obvious than she wanted, but she had been gifted with eyes that were always guarded. Or so Grimmjow thought.

 

He didn’t, couldn’t, love her in a way that helped. That she needed.

 

The arrancar glared upwards. The sky, he mused, was more broken than before. Las Noches had always been covered in a wrap, a false ceiling. And those fake heights seemed so insignificant to the vast blackness that loomed above (he wondered if that was how Ichigo saw the world).

 

It felt like eons, but he knew he had to move. Grimmjow’s legs rose and he walked. Walked and walked and walked until Neliel slammed into him because she knew something was wrong.

 

“Tell me.”

 

Quietly, or as quietly as the gales of Las Noches permitted, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez bared his soul in mourning. He pulled the other former-Espada close and murmured against her skin words that made him wonder why humans wanted hearts if he was hurting this badly without one.

 

Nel shook her head. “No.” She slapped him. How dare he, she thought, denied it because he was lying, he had to be, Ichigo was  _ fine _ , she had seen Ichigo recently,  _ Grimmyjow was lying _ , and...

 

She fell to her knees and tucked them over her face. Slowly, she descended into a long, dragged weeping, her fingers run over by tens of thousands of sharp, white grains. Grimmjow didn’t move either. The two of them sat and grieved together. For the friend that neither of them could comfort.

* * *

 

Kurosaki Ichigo’s funeral was not well-attended. Not by spirits or by humans. Life - the universe - did not revolve around her. But Urahara Kisuke thought it should. The younger Kurosaki children screamed their mourning at the bright, sunny sky that taunted their inner rain.

 

Karin, he thought, was someone who wasn’t formal. She was young, barely a teen, rather boyish. Still, seeing her in an all-black dress and even heels, he couldn’t help but wonder how people would have perceived Ichigo had she ever dressed the same. He frowned as Isshin called his daughters to him like a fair father should have, an arm around each girl. How close was the family truly?

 

It was a private ceremony, with just him, a small black cat that curled in on itself, a set of fraternal twins, a dazed father, and one dark-haired teen human whose name Kisuke couldn’t even remember. He did remember that Ichigo had, at one point, called the girl her best friend though. The fact he hadn’t seen her in a long time made him sneer. Kisuke’s eyes drifted and he scoured, his teeth biting so hard that his lower lip began to bleed.

 

Where were her closest allies? Where were Abarai Renji and Kuchiki Rukia? Madarame Ikkaku? Kisuke knew how much time they had spent together. And how much they didn’t anymore. Hitsugaya Toushirou and Matsumoto Rangiku, he thought, were at least acquainted with her. He waited, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Yoruichi meowed softly in his ears, something she hadn’t done in over a century.

 

Kisuke didn’t feel any calmer. His anxiety instead grew rapidly, his stomach churning to the point that he wanted to vomit. There were no arrancar in attendance either; they relationship between them and the rest of the afterlife was tentative and balanced by the recently deceased. Still, he expected them to show up. Grimmjow and Neliel, at the very least (He could not have known that they had already mourned).

 

There was nothing but fury in Kisuke when the doors closed and only a single Vaizard showed. And it wasn’t Shinji. Kensei, Kisuke thought, wasn’t close to Ichigo. Because he knew everything about her; she bled her heart out to him (he had always ignored the seed of insecurity that told him he only knew a fragment of her). Adored, respected, admired her and took care of her. Or so he believed.

 

But Kensei was proof that there were things, people, signs, that he had missed (What could he have done?). The very thought gnawed at his fingers. He clenched his fists. They still shook.

 

And despite of her role as part Quincy, Ishida Ryuuken and his son didn’t come for a girl that should have been, was, family. Inside, Kisuke knew that Ryuuken was present at the hospital with two extreme, emergency cases and Uryuu was in the midst of finals all the way in America and… and Kisuke didn’t care.

 

From time to time, Ichigo told him about how she missed Masaki and wondered if her mother was proud of her for graduating with good grades. That she grew up healthy and strong. And he had always told her with certainty, _ Of course _ . But he knew she dreamed of encountering Masaki and being rejected for everything she was.

 

Ichigo had confided in Kisuke how much it scared her because she knew her mother was consumed by the Grand Fisher so she would never be seen again, but she feared whether or not her mother was abhorred by her children’s lack of interest in the Quincy arts and their distance from their cousins. Ichigo tried, in spite of Ryuuken’s standoff nature and Uryuu’s time-zone difference. So why weren’t they here?

 

_ Why was the woman he loved scorned even in death? _

 

Kisuke’s hand instinctively fingered the hilt of his sword. Idly, he wondered if Ichigo’s zanpakutou tried to talk her out of it. Or comforted her in her final moments (he prayed they did something. Anything. Because he didn’t). Not that his made him feel any better.

 

Benihime crooned as she caressed him, hissed with pleasure as her competition for Kisuke’s heart disappeared. He was hers, she whispered. All of him. And she was his. Her laugh rang through, cruel and content. Kisuke did not know what to make of it.

 

Because his heart clenched in ice, fear, hate, self-loathing, disgust, revulsion, resignation, that his own soul loved itself more than it loved Kurosaki Ichigo, even when though Kurosaki Ichigo was more valuable than the Soul King.

 

And when Kurosaki Isshin dared to start the service by saying how much he missed his  _ son _ , something in him snapped. Kisuke’s face shifted from stunned to incredulous to furious all in the span of a second and Kurosaki Isshin’s face met with his fist, there was a scream and some thundering and-

 

Kisuke didn’t know he was out of breath until his knees hit the floor and his oldest friend cradled his bruised knuckles with the palm of her hands. Yoruichi said nothing, but she glared at Isshin nonetheless.

 

“What’s wrong with you,” he panted out, “ _What_ ’ _s_ _wrong with you_?!”

 

Isshin glared at him from the floor but didn’t fight back. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. Ichigo’s twin sisters ran to their father to prop him up but did nothing more to help him.

 

One of them, the brown-haired one, slapped Isshin. Because their sister was dead and all their father saw was a son instead of a daughter, afraid to let her become a clone of his wife because she was beautiful like Masaki.

 

But not just as, Kisuke thought. Because she was more. More than anything in the universe (And all of a sudden, Urahara Kisuke felt that his two-hundred and seventy-odd years no longer held any more meaning than the dust of the Earth or the dregs of Hell).

 

“Was it worth it, dad? Did Ichi-nee even mean anything to you?” The girl was crying. But then again, so was he, Kisuke thought. She tried to say something else but ended up breaking further. Her twin pulled her away, their heads down and dusked by shadows.

 

The rest of the procession was quick, he noted (it felt like nothing but forever to him). There weren’t many words for her casket. So he dropped as many lilies as he could hold.

 

His walk home was staunch with coldness. The sun shone bright in the azure distance, hindered by nothing - not a cloud - as he walked. He felt his eyes grow heavy. “Yoruichi?”

 

“Yes, Kisuke?”

 

The lilt in her voice made him miss a step. She missed Ichigo too, he reminded himself. Ichigo was a student to both of them. Yoruichi’s actions were odd, even by her standards. They reminded him of Soi-Fon. No. They were different. He closed his eyes, his mind racing. It was more than mentorship. But not romantic. It was like… Yushirou. But more.

 

Ah. The realization was subtle, but strong. She had seen Ichigo akin to something like a daughter.

 

But Kisuke could see that she would move on. She hadn’t started, but the signs were there. He watched her look at him. He wasn’t alright. Or okay. He wasn’t going to be. Both of them knew it. And he bet that she knew what he was going to say. But he owed his friend honesty. “I’m sorry.”

 

Two weeks after the funeral, his shop raised its final sign: “For Sale.”

* * *

 

Kuchiki Byakuya did not know what to make of his world. The sun rose and set, and Seireitei was more prosperous than ever. Soul Society was, according to Shunsui, at its most peaceful. And it was.

 

But his heart yearned and hurt. Not all the time. Not even most (He had become rather numb over the years, more so than before, according to his lieutenant). Just whenever he had time to brood.

 

When he heard that Kurosaki Ichigo had  _ died _ , his arms numbed and his knees bent. Renji hadn’t commented on his captain’s lack of poise and elegance as the man he respected lost his composure.

 

~o.O.o~

 

_ “What do you mean she’s dead _ .”  _ His voice was soft and quivered as it pierced through his lieutenant. “You have always been crude, but such jokes are not fashionable, Abarai Renji. _ ”

 

“ _ She’s dead _ ,”  _ Renji repeated. The red-haired man stared for a moment longer as he waited for the news to sink in. Many people did not see Kuchiki Byakuya for anything more than a cold, but proud, soldier who did his job without hesitation. _

 

_ But Abarai Renji had served the man for so long, seen him in scenarios which could have been described as unique, that he could, with confidence, say that he knew his captain more than anyone else save Rukia. There were few times he had seen his captain so vulnerable. And nearly all of them revolved around the human girl that blew everyone’s expectations away.  _ “ _ She’s gone, sir _ .”

 

“... _ Leave me for the day. I… I need to be alone. _ ”

 

~o.O.o~

 

Byakuya dismissed his servants and dressed himself, stalking the manor quietly. It was once unusual for him to be awake so early, but over the years, he had learned to adapt. Ichigo loved the morning, and when he asked her why, she had told him that she hated it when she was young. But there was no one to get Karin and Yuzu ready for school. So she had to be the one to do it.

 

She had started to rise just before dawn and prepare everyone’s lunches, to sign her sisters up for activities, to ensure that her father had enough fight in him to commit to his job and provide for the things she couldn’t. The sunrise, she had said, reminded her of her mother’s smiles.

 

The servants that passed him muttered, “Good morning,” with their practiced bows and Byakuya found himself wondering what he could do to make their lives better. The world, he had come to believe, was an endless mire with a torrential current in the favor of stagnancy, complacency, all while demanding change. And failure to do so was haunting.

 

He had been fighting for over a year with his elders and clan members, and Central Forty-Six, over permission to ask for Ichigo’s hand in marriage. To allow her to accept his name. The rejection was immediate and harsh. Her family was an offshoot of a disgraced name, she herself the daughter of a rejected, self-exiled captain who was the second-in-line heir.

 

They had forbidden him, even Kyouraku, from seeing her except when necessary (Captains rarely ever were given the chance, the power, to slip through. Byakuya still visited every three months - it hadn’t been enough). Byakuya did not care. He had argued vehemently and forced weekly meetings, intent obvious to everyone involved. And over the weeks, his case had built itself and the cards had begun to fold.

 

But it had been for naught.

 

After her death, Kuchiki Byakuya learned once again that he was still nothing more than a coward. Unable to bare his soul, he had sent a hell-butterfly in his place. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the second woman loved laid to rest.

 

And in the two weeks before Urahara Kisuke disappeared, Kuchiki Byakuya made his way to the man’s shop and shared saké with him. He remembered how they sat in quiet, their violent emotions quelled by the peace in a common love’s death.

 

He broke the silence by telling Urahara that he loved Kurosaki Ichigo and had been told by a certain black cat that he hadn’t been the only one. So he began to talk.

 

Byakuya shared with the shop owner how she stumbled into his life. How he hadn’t liked her. But he learned to. And after an extended silence, Urahara shared his story.

 

The Kuchiki learned that there were people out in the world with worse romantic skills than himself. He also learned that Urahara Kisuke was afraid to break the status quo, even though the man in question didn’t know why (His eyes told Byakuya that he didn’t fear rejection; he feared for her. Urahara, he realized, thought himself nothing but a monster. Her death only multiplied his self-loathing).

 

The sixth-company captain pitied Urahara. He knew he would never forget the look on Urahara’s face. For at least, he, Byakuya had thought to himself, had once been wed and loved and been loved and showered with a tranquility and union that made him whole. Urahara hadn’t. And wouldn’t.

 

Half a year into his disappearance and the search squads had stopped. Even Yoruichi’s. It was hard to believe, Byakuya mused, that the last fifteen painful years seemed quicker than the fleeting few he had with either of his loves.

 

Hisana had been his past. Now, Kurosaki Ichigo was, too.

 

The loss of the first one shattered his heart into more shards than his Senbonzakura. The thought of not seeing second broke him in a way that words did not convey.

 

For Hisana, he watched over Rukia, took her in, loved her, raised her, shielded her. For Ichigo, he had done nothing but share a night that no longer served any purpose but to haunt him for eternity.

 

~o.O.o~

 

_ She didn’t need him to tell her that she was beautiful _ , _ she snarked. He did so anyway _ .  _ She huffed _ ,  _ exasperated _ .  _ Why was he so infuriating and yet so attractive all the same? _

 

“ _ Stop it, you jerk. _ ”  _ Tears brimmed the edges of her eyes as she swiped at him. _

 

_ Byakuya hummed _ . “ _ Can you tell me why so _ ? _ What is it that I’m doing wrong, Kurosaki Ichigo _ ?  _ I will admit to not being used to my compliments rejected _ ;  _ but you are only my second lover _ ,  _ so perhaps my experiences are not diverse enough to understand _ .”

 

_ Ichigo choked out a laugh _ .  _ He told her that was beautiful too _ .  _ She beamed and kissed him on the nose _ ,  _ his expression amused and curious _ .  _ And confused. There was a hint of something in his eyes, and he hesitated for some time before he spoke again. _

 

“ _ Did you not just tell me to not call you beautiful _ ?  _ Truly, you are someone I do not understand _ .”  _ The closer he got, the more she flushed, almost like her namesake. He found himself enamored by the hue as it tickled her flesh with rosy patches that her even more desirable. His hands ran through her hair as he stared into her eyes, a smile on his face.  _ “ _ Your redness makes it harder to stop. Doing. This. _ ”

 

 _Byakuya kissed a trail of butterflies along her skin and she shivered again. There crawled a fire, leviathan and unstoppable - dangerous - and she mewled under his ministrations._ “ _Oh_ , _oh_ , _oh_!” _Her breath hitched as she begged_ , “ _Don’t stop_.”

 

_ His smirk made her melt. Her focus shot, she squealed and he felt her heart-rate soar. They lost themselves again _ ,  _ the night passing with tenderness. _

 

_ They stopped for some time and talked _ .  _ She was so young, Byakuya realized _ .  _ He worried if she minded the difference in age; the question barely left his lips before a finger pressed against them and Ichigo smiled _ .  _ She admitted that he was the oldest lover she had ever taken _ .

 

_ His brows furrowed _ ;  _ while old enough to pursue her sexual interests _ ,  _ Ichigo was still undoubtedly young _ ,  _ even by human standards. She laughed _ . “ _ You shinigami are so out of touch with time _ .  _ You guys probably don’t go to the world of the living much _ ,  _ do you _ ? _ Sex is common, most people start around this age _ ,  _ and experimentation is normal _ .”

 

“ _ Really _ ,”  _ Byakuya questioned.  _ “ _ I suppose we must be, but I cannot know. As you are the only human I have ever gotten to know, I shall have to take your word for it _ .”

 

“ _ I have a hard time imagining I’m only the second _ ,”  _ Ichigo teased. She saw his jealousy at her mention of other lovers _ ,  _ he realized _ ,  _ and opted to tease him about his own _ .  _ This time, it was him who flushed _ ,  _ albeit much more lightly _ .  _ Two could play at this game _ .

 

“ _ But you are _ .”  _ Byakuya draped an arm over her midriff as he curled around her, their bodies intermingled in sex and sweat. His words were soft, but his tone final _ .  _ It left Ichigo’s heart in her throat. She reveled in commanding the entirety of his attention _ .

 

_ Instead of words, she snuggled back and wriggled against him, eliciting a moan. He nibbled her neck again and traced every inch of his skin with his fingers. _

 

_ He worshipped her until dawn touched shore. _

 

~o.O.o~

 

But unlike Urahara Kisuke, Byakuya cared too much, (perhaps about the most pointless things, his mind thought,) was bound by tradition, to simply have sprinted off into the recluses of time. He wished that he didn’t. Because he owed Ichigo that much.

 

She had slapped him in the face, stood up to him, stabbed him in the face of execution because he hadn’t treated his sister-in-law properly. Attacked, with fervor and disregard, a noble whose very breath could eradicate her entire existence.

 

Wasn’t it obvious, she had asked him. How hard could it be, she said, to defend whom he needed to protect. To stand up for his own beliefs and desires. Her actions humbled him, made him reconsider. What was the meaning of tradition if tradition was venom? Antiquity did not command respect; value did. She was just an outsider, a human, living an entirely different world apart was more invested in his family’s health than he was. And that same girl held him up when he had broken to tears and breathed new vows.

 

A girl whom he failed to repay.

 

Part of him hated Rukia hadn’t gone to her funeral. She refused to pay respects to a girl who had saved her life on countless occasions, irrelevant of the damage and wounds that she sustained for Rukia, for her friend’s smiles, tears, and laughter. But he said nothing when their eyes met and never trod waters whenever Ichigo’s name was within distance. After all, the same part of him loathed his own hypocrisy.

 

The sunlight glared at him as he sat in his garden. How long had it been since he had private company here, he asked himself. The Kuchiki estate remained unchanged, and it unnerved him. Was this colorless white the stretch of forever? Would these walls never move?

 

Rukia’s child poked her head into the gardens with a cheery wave. “Hi Bya-ossan! Oops. I mean, good morning!”

 

He smiled at her attempt at manners. “Good morning to you as well, dear niece.”

 

The little girl pouted. “Are you busy today? When are you going to teach me how to play tag?”

 

That cracked a chuckle out of him; his niece was rather good at getting him to open up, in spite of the distance between him and her parents. “Indeed, I will be busy later on. But for now, I can make time for my beloved little one. Come.”

 

Excited, she scurried over. Byakuya stood up, “You are too young for extended use of shunpo; it would be dangerous. However, I can teach you a bit of the basics of   _ hohou _ . But you must pay attention.”

 

“Yes sir!”

 

Working with his niece was a godsend in Byakuya’s day-to-day activities. Byakuya had been so self-absorbed and lost in his own desires that he hadn’t seen Ichigo was in need. And she acted in the way she felt best; he continued to pay his price for his inaction. But he wouldn’t drown.

 

He wouldn’t make the same mistake with those he had left. Not that he would forget. Her memory was alive, even if faint, in that she inspired him. Guilt was never easy to live with. But he tried.

* * *

 

One winter morning saw Kuchiki Byakuya tasked with delivering a gift to an aunt’s favorite store, a flower shop at the edges of Rukongai’s forty-second district. He had been reluctant, but she assured him there was something for him there as well. He did not enjoy the look in her eyes.

 

But dutifully, he walked. The streets of Rukongai amazed him even still. There were many children dressed with little more than rags that did no stretch to cover enough of their skin. Byakuya knew many of them suffered from the cold. They stared as he walked through and made sure to avoid his way.

 

Whispers were the currency of Rukongai, and to see someone well-dressed as he was to go through them alone would have been an invitation for businesses to prey on him, had his captain’s haori not tousled about. It was strange. Seireitei fought hard to maintain balance and did indeed protect the people of Rukongai, but they were no rulers of such lands. Fear was more noticeable than respect.

 

Idly, Byakuya wondered if that was how the world had always been. In his lifetime, it was the only thing he had seen. The morning was coming to a light close; noon, he believed, was within the hour.

 

If Renji or any other shinigami were with him, he might have been inclined to use shunpo. But most did not know that Kuchiki Byakuya cherished his spare time by walking through all roads, particularly those he had traveled less before (After all, two of the brighter points of his life were discovered by doing such).

 

_ Ringo no Mouri _ , he mouthed. Hm. What a quaint name, he mused. It was small on the inside, but it wasn’t barren. Colors illuminated the shop. Reds, blues, violets, yellows, and a large amount of green. How was this possible? The front of the shop displayed nothing but a shabby hovel.

 

Byakuya ran his fingers over some of the plants. They had an astounding amount of reiatsu; this wasn’t natural. While everything in the afterlife consisted of reishi, concentrating and imbuing them with energy was something that was rarely heard of among non-Hollows or non-Shinigami.

 

He had to know more. “Is this shop open for the day? I come bearing thanks from a relative of mine.”

 

From the back room walked out a soul he hadn’t seen in over a half century. Her hair, he noted, was longer than it had been in the past, but still reasonably short by most women’s standards. It covered her face and expressed her features in a way that hadn’t been present in her past life. But those eyes were the same beautiful hazel he’d fallen in love with.

 

She stared blankly at his awestruck gaze - he didn’t know what she saw in his eyes, but he saw wariness in hers. Byakuya assumed his gaze must have expressed something akin to being flummoxed while near revelry. She blinked, and then she moved forward. He felt her drink in his attire with his eyes. She frowned, pulling him from his trance.

 

“Can I help you? I’m not sure our shop can provide for someone of your…  _ caliber _ .” The word seemed foreign to her lips, her wince evident. She hastened to cover up her mistake, but he stopped her and placed the gift on the table.

 

He coughed, embarrassed that he had been caught staring at her face, only to find that his eyes were spellbound by the most aged ring on a left hand that he had ever seen. His heart dropped again. He didn’t notice his fists were clenched, his mind so lost in thought that he didn’t realize there was blood until she gasped and ran to the back for bandages.

 

“Well,” she said dryly, “I think that’s the first time someone was so… eager to see me.”

 

Byakuya did not blush. “You offended by it?”

 

“No. But really, my proof of marriage is enough to make a nobleman have an aneurysm? That’s something I’ll have to note, you know. Might be useful in the future.” Sharp as ever, he smiled wistfully. Her eyes widened; was she testing his mettle?

 

“Forgive me. You simply…” he struggled to put it into words. How could he make her understand? What had Kurosaki Ichigo valued above all else?  _ Honesty and love _ ;  _ action before death _ . “You remind me so much of someone,” he swallowed. “But she passed, some time ago.”

 

“How long?” The young woman looked like she understood, her eyes softened as she stretched a hand over his. “Given your reaction, I presume the two of you were close.”

 

He hesitated, his left arm grasping the elbow of his right in discomfort. “Sixty-four years. And unfortunately, your presumption is false.”

 

The girl scoffed, but without malice. She countered, “Then to have loved her for so long may be even more unfortunate, Lord..?”

 

Byakuya did not deny her statement but blanched at how blasé his actions had been. He had forgotten his manners. Worry sprouted seeds - was her name even the same in this incarnation? He gave a quick bow as he asked, “Forgive my breach in etiquette. My name is Kuchiki Byakuya. May I have the pleasure of having yours?”

 

She bowed in return but quickly stood, pride in her stance. “How strange it is to have a lord bow to me. Anyhow, I possess no family to give me a name, milord, but I have taken to the name Ichigo. Many believe it is about my hair,” she laughed. “But it runs deeper than that, I assure you.”

 

Ichigo’s expression took a turn, soured by what must have been unpleasant thoughts and memories. “There are so many other orphans and wondered if there could ever be a thing done for them. Since the nobles find peasants beneath them and the merchants concern themselves only with their own coffers, orphans have no place here.”

 

Her tone was scathing as spat, “And Shinigami are no better. They have power too, and some come from common stock. However, once a sword is in their hands, they cast us off, leave us forgotten; they come, sometimes, and raze our livelihoods by force.”

 

The entire she spoke, Ichigo kept her eyes trained on him, Byakuya noticed. Every twitch, nod, breath was tracked. He had always loved her attention. “I’m not blind to happenings of Rukongai, Ichigo-san. But I wonder if it is my duty to police Rukongai as either or both a shinigami or as a noble. I will not patronize you by saying that ‘to patrol one means a need to patrol all, but there are too many districts to control, therefore it is impossible.’

 

“However, I can put forth to a general measure to have a central policing division. Such a system, though, I do not think I could come up with on my own,” Byakuya said mildly. “Therefore I would have to ask for assistance in creating and maintaining one.”

 

A laugh pulled itself from Ichigo’s lips, “You would go to such lengths just to see me again? Even though you see this ring?” Her eyes were sharp - the stiffening of his face was not missed - as she watched him nod. He did not understand the storm behind her eyes, much like she did not comprehend the one hiding within his. No matter what she thought of him, he needed her close. Ichigo gave the noble another glance. “I doubt I would be able to dissuade you otherwise, anyway.”

 

“You would not.”

 

“Then I shall see you another day.”

 

As Byakuya closed the door to the shop, he felt a daze overcome him. Lady Luck smiled upon him today; he would not make light of his opportunity: the game was afoot.

  
  
  



End file.
